


Of Monsters and Men

by Mikkal



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Angst, Badass EVERYONE, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Familial Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Serious AU, friendships, injuries, like serious au, made up wesen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 09:54:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3483908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikkal/pseuds/Mikkal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a Grimm in Portland, and the War is right behind him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“I wish, when people said they trust me,_

_they meant they trust me to do what it is in my nature to do._

_(But, no, they always trust me to be someone I don’t even want to be.)”_

_—a softer world: 1166_

 [...]

_“And what rough beast, it’s hour come round at last,_

_slouches toward_ [Bedlam] _to be born?”_

_—The Second Coming: W.B. Yeats_

 [...]

_{October 2011}_

_{Portland, Oregon}_

 

Monroe smells him before he sees him. He’s walking down the block, minding his own business, planning on stopping by Spill the Beans for a morning fix, when a whiff of stale blood and cold iron invades his nose and makes him cough harshly.

            He puts a casual hand over his nose and continues to the coffee house, hoping the smell is just his imagination, but it’s too powerful. He can’t really think of any Wesen that smells like that, so it’s odd. The stale blood is commonplace, especially around the more vicious ones. Hell, Monroe had smelled like that only a few years ago. Iron, though, no wesen smells like iron unless they’ve spent fifty years in London or Paris. Most Wesen have grown use to iron, especially since most of it’s dirty, but pure iron works well enough that the rich, well-off hunters use it.

            Hunters.

            Oh no.

            _Grimm._

            There is a Grimm in Portland? Oh God, he’s going to die. He is so dead. He has to warn Rosalee.

            Monroe takes a deep breath. “Calm down,” he tells himself, actually speaking out loud. “You don’t know if it’s a Grimm. It’s could be a Hunter or one of those freaky Doctor people. Doesn’t have to be the most vicious killing machine that you use to look under your bed for at night. When you were a kid.”

            He’s never going to say out loud that he still does, occasionally, look under his bed for a Grimm even now.

            The stench gets strong as he gets closer to Spill the Beans. He coughs again and breathes through his mouth. Damn _Blutbad_ sense of smell. His uncle did try to teach him how to block the strong stuff, man he should’ve listened.

            Monroe is not going to let Rosalee start her day off without a Pumpkin Spice Latte, as horrifying as that sounds. That will be hell. So he puts on his most human looking brave face and enters the building.

            And almost runs in the object of his horror and avoidance.

            The shorter man jumps back to save his drink and both their shirts. He sighs in relief. “Wow, that was a close one. Sorry about that.” He smiles politely at Monroe.

            He has a German accent. He has a freaking German accent—soft and not so noticeable, but still there. He’s most definitely a Grimm.

            There is a freaking Grimm in freaking Portland.

            They are all doomed. The War is here now. He thought it would take at least another twenty years for the War to reach the New World, let alone Portland. Guess he thought wrong.

            His panic makes him woge every-so-slightly, his eyes turning red and his teeth elongating. That makes him panic even more because he’s _woging in front of a Grimm._

His hands shoot up on their own accord, subtle enough the rest of the coffee house doesn’t notice. “I don’t want any trouble, man,” he says at the same time he berates him himself; yeah, like he’s going to listen to that pathetic plead to spare my life. “I just want to get my tea and latte.”

            The Grimm hasn’t made a move during or after Monroe woged, but now he gives a little grin and a raised eyebrow. “Pumpkin Spice Latte?” He guesses, right on the money, buy that’s not the point. “I’ve heard it’s good. I don’t want any trouble either. Trust me. Enjoy the drinks.” With that, he salutes Monroe with his cup and walks out the door without a backward glance.

            Monroe stares after him. Did a Grimm just let a Blutbad go? Forgive him for stating the obvious, but that never happened in any of his childhood stories.

            “Hey, Monroe!” The friendly barista calls out, her name is Gabriel and she’s worked here a year already. “Just in time. I was worried your drinks were going to get cold. Wednesday Green Tea with honey and a Grande Pumpkin Spice Latte for Miss. Rosalee.” She slides the cups over the counter as Monroe pulls out the money. Enjoy.”

            “Thank you, Gabriel,” he says. He picks up the drinks and waves away the receipt. “I have a quick question, though.”

            “Anything. Though if it’s about when the Fall specials go away it’s actually in a few weeks, but I’ll have the syrups until they expire.” She grins and wiggles her eyebrows.

            Monroe shakes his head. “That’s not the question. That man I almost ran into, what do you know about him?”

            She frowns. “Absolutely nothing. This is the first time I’ve seen him. He was chatting up the veterinarian that stops by before she goes to work. Ordered a large dark roast coffee, took it black. Why?”

            “Be careful,” Monroe warns. “That guy is a Grimm.”

            Faint black lines appear on her face, the stripes of a tiger. “Him?” She says, scoffing though Monroe can smell the spike of fear. “Did you see him? He looks like he hasn’t sleep in days and decided to get beat up. A breeze could knock him down. Hell, my nephew could knock him down and he’s six months old.”

            “I know what I saw,” he says, growling a little. She immediately looks chastised. “Be careful.”

            “I will, Monroe. Promise.” She drops the rag she’d been using to clean something up and called her co-worker. “Saira. I need to call my sister. Can you watch the register for me?”

            He smiles at her before walking out to head to the Spice Shop seven doors down, bursting in to find the place empty for everyone except the lovely Rosalee. “I come bearing drinks.”

            She’s behind the counter, organizing a few of her products. “Awesome. I’m in the mood for pumpkin.” She takes the drink and sips it, her eyes close in bliss and she does a little happy dance. “Oh. This is so good. It’s freezing outside.”

            Monroe chuckles and kisses her. “Anything interesting happen in, say, the half hour you’ve been open?” The answer he’s expecting is no, nothing interesting, what he got is:

            “Nothing wesen interesting, but I did have a human come in looking for something to enhance his _performance_.” There’s a mischievous smile forming.

            He groans. “I do _not_ want to hear about this.”

            “I had to hear about it for fifteen minutes,” she says. “The guy was practically loitering outside, waiting for me to open.” She tugs on his arm to get him to sit down and traps him there by plopping down on his lap. “I had to hear about it then I’m going to torture you with the same.”

She takes a breath, about to launch into the story when Monroe says, “There’s a Grimm in Portland.” Then he clamps his mouth shut, eyes wide. That is not how he wanted to break the news of their imminent doom to her.

            “What?” she asks flatly.

            He winces. “I ran into him outside the coffee house. He basically confirmed it without actually admitting it.”

            Rosalee gets up and starts pacing. “This is unbelievable. What are we suppose to do? The War’s not suppose to be here for another decade or so.”

            “That’s what I thought! Well, gave it twenty years, but yeah.” He sips his drink. “We could tell the Wesen Council.”

            “Like they can do anything about it,” Rosalee says. Which, hey, good point. Grimms are not Wesen, they aren’t human either; he still hasn’t figured out if they’re sub-wesen or para-human. “We might have to actually rely on the Royal this time round.”

            Monroe rolls his eyes. “That might be a first. I still don’t see how we can trust him. We don’t even know who the dude is.”

            She groans and rubs her temples. “This is…this, I came here for a reason, Monroe. We’re protected by the Royal no matter how secretive he is and there’s no War here, but now.” She looks at him almost desperately. “If the New World gets pulled in the War like the Old World I don’t think I can stay here.”

            He gets up and hugs her tightly. She presses her face to his chest. “It’s going to be okay,” he says, running his fingers through her hair. “I have no freaking clue how, but I know it’s going to be okay.”

            Rosalee huffs a laugh before she pulls away, wiping her face. “I got to get back to work and I’m pretty sure you have a grandfather clock waiting for you at home.”

           “You’re right.” He puts his hands on her shoulders and looks her in the eye. “We’re going to be okay. Okay?”

            She smiles. “Of course.”

 [...] 

 

His phone rings and he lets it go three times before answering the unknown number. “What is it?” It’s been awhile since he’s had to speak French, none of his contacts have called him recently. He’s not sure if he should be worried or relieved nothing big enough has happened.

            “There’s a Grimm in the New World,” a rather nervous voice says. It’s not his usual contact, odd. “Fair warning, he’s probably not on your side.”

            Sean sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “If he’s not on my side, then why is he in the New World? I didn’t think Grimms were allowed here for another year or so.” Of course, the rule _has_ been broken for certain wars, but they always went back home. Let the fledging country grow and be close to dying before wracking havoc.

            “He’s gone rogue,” is the answer. The unhelpful answer. “ _Endezeichen_. He disappeared from the castle in July and was last seen in Virginia at the beginning of August. It’s unknown if he’s heading toward Portland considering his apparent dislike for the Royal family and Verrat, but you need to be on high alert.”

            “His dislike?” The Royal family and company are very dislikeable, but Grimms are known for not disliking those they should rationally dislike.

            “He’s known as a problem case,” is all his contact says. “I don’t know how he’s a problem case, but he is. I keep hearing _Endezeichen_.”

            Ironic considering most of the Grimms the Seven Families keep under their thumb are teetering on the edge of _Endezeichen_ , so if they call this man _Endezeichen_ then he must be really bad compared to them.

            “Who is he?”

            “I have to go.” The other line goes dead and Sean glares at his phone in disgust. Coward.

If his contact is so squirrely then this Grimm must be a huge deal, probably bigger than most Grimms should ever be. The only ones he can think of are the Kessler Grimms, but they’re based in Austria and have been for the past twenty years. He highly doubts Kelly and Marie would be willing to leave the Royals’ side. They’re the most bloodthirsty Grimms on the ledger.

There’s a knock at the door and Sean grits his teeth before very calmly telling himself that he’s the one that chose Police Captain as his chosen profession when he decided to become Regent. He can’t complain now, that’s just childish. Even if he does have more important things to do—unless it’s a murder or kidnapping, but if its just paperwork he’s going to have someone’s head.

            So he continues writing like he didn’t just get off the phone with a less-than-trustworthy confidant and calls, “Come in.” He glances up when the door opens and looks back to his report when he sees who it is. “What can I help you with, Sergeant Wu?”

            “There’s someone here to see you, Captain,” he says. “Didn’t say who he was, looks mighty rough. Asked me to give you this, though.” He hands out a white business card.

            Sean raises an eyebrow and takes it. It’s blank until he holds it up to the light, the shadow of the Royal Crest filtering through except there’s a dove in the center. It’s the card of the Resistance; to boldly bring it out now must be very important.

            “Send him in,” Sean orders. “Thank you, Sergeant.” Wu nods and leaves, a few minutes later a man enters.

            Sean takes a good look at him, assessing what he can. Probably 5’11, pale, black hair, looks like he hasn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in ages. He honestly doesn’t look like much, but Sean is fully aware of deceptive looks. He, himself, is one of those ‘don’t judge a book by its cover.’

            “Can I help you?”

            The man grins. “Captain Renard,” he says, he has an accent Sean knows intimately. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Nick Burkhardt.”

It’s obvious he’s a Grimm; Sean doesn’t even have to woge to see the signs in his eyes. He blinks in surprise, though; he’s never heard of a Nick Burkhardt being a Grimm. Granted he hasn’t gone through the Grimm ledger in a good few years, but Nick looks old enough to have been active for quite some time, his name should’ve been in there even ten years ago when he last had a chance to peek.

            “Forgive me, Nick,” Sean says, trying to stay as polite as he can. “I don’t think I’ve heard of you before.”

            “Well, you’re certainly nicer than your brother, I’ll give you that.” He takes the seat in front of his head. “Though I’m pretty sure anyone else in the world is nicer than Eric Renard. And the king. Your father is a right bastard. ”

            The man looks exhausted, seconds away from collapsing, but he still manages to snark. Fantastic.

            “You know my brother well?”

            “Well enough,” Nick says, voice steel.

            “Interesting.” Sean puts down his pen and folds his fingers together. “Right now, though, I’m more interested in how you got one of my cards.”

            Nick slouches in the chair and tucks his chin in the folds of the scarf wrapped around his neck, looking suddenly young. “A family of Beavers in Ohio,” he says. “I helped them out, they helped me out.”

            He has to believe him. “Why are you here? Grimms are more or less forbidden in the New World.” For another few years, years unfortunately getting shorter and shorter as time goes by.

            “More or less,” Nick agrees. “It’s not a written rule, of course.” He sighs deeply. “I want to join the Resistance, your side of it specifically. You’re the only Royal I know who’s a bastard for the sake of good and not personal gain.”

            “That’s one way of putting it,” Sean says. Oh, this going to be entertaining. “What use will you be for me?”

            “Not much,” he admits, surprisingly enough. “I may have been with them for twenty years, but they were always wary of me. Apparently my family has a few issues concerning their family tree. They never told me what. But it’s obvious.

            He’s lying. He’s a fantastic lair and if Sean had been anyone other than himself he would completely believe Nick. But what is he lying about specifically?

            “But I’m not weak,” Nick adds. “You have your wesen, your officers, and you connections, but you don’t have a Grimm. Even if I am at the bottom of the ladder I’m still useful as an enforcer, maybe an consultant for the cases your detectives can’t handle.”

            Sean presses his lips together. “That’s a tempting offer,” he says. “But I don’t think I can trust a man who doesn’t even tell me the truth.”

            Nick chuckles. “Fair enough. Would my actual name be enough?” At Sean’s nod he takes a deep breath. “Burkhardt is my father’s name. My name is Nikolaus Kessler.”

            Ah, that explains so much. He _has_ heard of Nikolaus Kessler. His name has been in the leger for fifteen years; he started young, about thirteen years old. Interesting.

            “I might find some use for you after all,” Sean says. Nick smirks, raising an eyebrow. “Come back tomorrow, at noon. I’ll have some papers you can sign by then.”

            “Consulting papers?” Nick asks.

            Sean’s lip twitched in an almost smile. “Perhaps. I’ll have to forge a few things, I’ll keep Nick Burkhardt on the papers, but it’ll work out. I need a legitimate reason why you’ll be hanging around the building.”

            Nick shrugs. “Sounds good to me.” He stands a stretches, his spine popping in a way that makes even Sean wince.

            “And get some sleep,” Sean says. “You look like shit.”

            He salutes him mockingly, but before he can leave Sergeant Wu pokes his head back into his office.

            “Sir, Kylie Lang was reported missing. She never came home from school today and apparently she never went to class. She was staying at a friend’s house last night, but she never showed to that either. Media’s already swarming the steps.”

            Sean sighs and stands. “Thank you, Sergeant.” He closes the file and puts his pen in his pocket. “Tomorrow, Burkhardt,” he reminds the Grimm. “I might have a case for you sooner than I thought.”

            Nick’s eyes light with comprehension and he nods in understanding before ducking out of the room and into the hall. Sean takes a second to smooth out his jacket, straighten his tie, and prepare himself to give a statement about the mayor’s teenage daughter who wants to be a lawyer and just happens to be a Pflichttreue.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Monroe may have gotten up a little earlier that morning for the sole purpose of staking out the Grimm at the coffee house. He confuses Gabriel when he requests only his drink an hour earlier than usual. He takes a seat in the corner that has a perfect view of most of the cafe, including the front door and the seats near the window, and with the beautiful fall day any well-adjusted human will pick that seat—which he’s hoping the veterinarian is that human for convince sake.

            This is a very stupid plan for two reasons: one, he doesn’t know if the Grimm is coming back today; and two, what is he going to do if the Grimm recognizes, confronts, and then kills him? Rosalee would kill him twice over!

            He shudders at the thought and entertains the idea of bolting, but he hunkers down and continues to pay partial attention to the fob watch book he’s already read over a dozen times. This was his idea; he has to see it through. His and Rosalee’s lives might depend on it.

            Half an hour and a paragraph read twelve times later, Monroe hears a “Doctor Silverton!” and his head jerks up to see a pretty red head at the counter. She doesn’t smell or look like a killer, but, then again, the strong smell of coffee beans is clogging his nose, and the Grimm yesterday certainly didn’t _look_ like a killer either. Maybe she really is the well-adjusted human like he’d hope and isn’t good at listening to gut feelings or else she’d be avoiding the Grimm.

            Speaking of: the Grimm walks in a few minutes later, after the veterinarian got her drink and chose a seat near the window. Surprise lights up the man’s tired face when she waves at him. Monroe frowns, he really does look tired. Gabriel hadn’t been exaggerating when she said he looked like he could be knocked over with the littlest push. His eyes are sunken in with light blue bags under then. His skin looks sickly pale and there’s a large bruise splashed across his cheek and jaw. It looks painful, but that doesn’t stop the large smile he has on his face.

            Startling blue eyes suddenly pin Monroe to his seat and he can’t breathe. The Grimm smirks at him, salutes him with his coffee yet again, then goes to sit with the veterinarian. Monroe lets out a shaky gust of air. Oh gods, that was terrifying.

            Monroe doesn’t dare move now; the Grimm knows he here and if he moves then he’ll know Monroe is here just for him. So he tries to pay attention to his book, but his eyes keep going back to the Grimm and Dr. Silverton. The Grimm looks…disappointingly normal. As a kid, Monroe had imagined demon black eyes and long fangs, perhaps just as wesen looking as the rest of them. And, sure, when Monroe woged yesterday the black eyes of infinite nothingness showed themselves, he didn’t see demon, he didn’t even see the true nature of a Blutbad, he actually saw just Monroe. It’s actually really creepy.

            Just fifteen minutes later Dr. Silverton leaves the café in a rush, probably late to her job, and the Grimm finishes his drink before standing and making his way toward Monroe. He grips his book tightly and tenses up, his back almost snapping with how fast he moved.

            The Grimm sits down across from him and Monroe waits for the inevitable machete or axe, but the man just grins. “How’s it going?”

            Monroe gaps at him, eyes widening. “ _What?_ Did you just seriously ask me how it’s going?”

            He shrugs. “I mean, why not? You’re the first wesen I’ve seen here in Portland who actually has come back around to stake me out. You’re the second one not to turn heel and run.”

            “Second?” He raises an eyebrow. “Who’s the first?” He asks, then immediately regrets it; he shouldn’t be making conversation with a Grimm!

            The Grimm leans back. “I’m not telling,” he says with a smirk. “She’s a nice girl, I wouldn’t want to get her in trouble.”

            “Why are you talking to me?”

            “I’m going to be here for awhile, I don’t want to spend my time without any friends,” he answers.

            Monroe snorts. “Friends? Sorry, man, but Blutbaden and Grimms don’t mix. I wouldn’t want be friends with a killer.”

            “Takes one to know one,” the Grimm counters and, hey, low blow. “But you’re wieder,” he goes on to say. “There’s no term for a Grimm who’s stopped Grimm-ing, but there’s one for one who goes even more Grimm. Maybe we can make up a name?”

            Who the hell does this man think he is, talking nonsense?

            He sticks out a hand like he wants a handshake, but there’s a white card between his index and middle finger. “My name is Nick Burkhardt, I work for Captain Renard in the consultant sense.”

            Monroe takes the card gingerly—perhaps it’s poisoned?—and peers at it, he chokes on spit when he sees the Kronenberg crest with a dove in the center instead of an eagle. Does this mean the Police Captain is the Royal that’s one of the heads of the Laufer? And the fact that Nick has the card and it’s not damaged in anyway means that this Grimm is telling the truth.

            “Monroe,” he finds himself saying. “My name is Monroe.”

            Nick grins brightly; almost identical to the smile he gave Dr. Silverton. “It’s very nice to meet you, Monroe.”

            “Yeah,” he says, dazed. “I think it might be nice to meet you too, Nick.”

           

[…]

 

Sean is surprised to find Nick an hour early for their appointment. He’s lounging in the bullpen with Detective Griffin—who is steadily working and has an amused, exasperated expression on his face—and Sean has to commend him on his ability to hone in on one of the few humans who will probably accept the wesen world with only little complaint. He’s been meaning to try and slowly push Hank into more wesen cases; maybe he’ll pair him and Nick up on the Kylie Lang one this time around. They’re slowly running out of time.

            “Burkhardt,” he calls. Heads turn at the unfamiliar name, first to look at Sean then the man they realise they’ve never seen before talking so casually to the MVP of the Portland P.D. “My office.”

            The Grimm says a few parting words to Hank before following Sean into the office. “I may have made contact with a Blutbad,” he says as soon as the door closes. “He seems nice enough. Wieder.”

            Sean waits until his back is to Nick before rolling his eyes. “Something tells me this is going be a reoccurring thing with you, isn’t it?”

            “Seemed like a good idea at the time.” He pauses then shakes his head. “Still seems like a good idea. I need more people on my side. The front desk lady at the hotel I’m staying at is already friendly with me, but I don’t think she knows what she is exactly, or what I am, so that doesn’t count.”

            Sean raises an eyebrow. “’Front desk lady?’”

            “Blitzlöwen,” he says nonchalantly, like he hasn’t met one of the more rare types of wesen—a lightning lion, often mistaken for Thor, the Norse God of Thunder.

            Sean opens a drawer in his desk and looks down, hiding the fact that he’s rolling his eyes again, but with a grin on his face. This is going to be entertaining. He pulls out a portfolio packed full and a slim folder. “These are for you,” he says.

            Nick takes them items carefully, eyeing them with wariness. “What are they?” He opens the folder first, his eyes widening at the official paper work that is just waiting for his signature. “These are amazing forgeries.” He squints at them, holding his new ID to the light. “Who made them?”

            “A Scharfblicke,” Sean answers. “Works in the mayor’s office.”

            “The same mayor who is a Pflichttreue and has a missing daughter still?” Nick asks. Sean nods. “How did you get some of this information? I’m pretty sure you need my finger prints.” He squints again. “These _are_ my fingerprints—I don’t want to know, the coffee house, right?—but it still says Nick Burkhardt.”

            “I pulled some strings. Don’t screw it up,” he warns. They were not easy strings to pull, he had to call in a lot of favours and he’s putting a good portion of his own reputation for a Grimm he doesn’t even know, let alone trust. “The portfolio has a few files I want you to look at. Wesen.”

            Nick nods and flips through them after clipping his ID to his belt. “Not the Lang case?”

            Sean shakes his head. “No, I have my detectives working on it. Hank Griffin is point. They’re close to finding her.” He watches Nick nod and can tell he doesn’t quite believe him. “If you want, I’ll allow you to shadow Griffin for a few hours so you learn how the system works. You’ll be given codes that will give you shallow access to files and databases.”

            He closes the portfolio. “I’ll accept. I like Griffin.” He grins. “Does he have any wesen in him? Griffin’s an unusual name for a human.”

            “He’s pure human as far as I’ve been able to tell,” Sean replies. “And I can tell very far.”

            Nick laughs at that and stands. “I’ll shadow him until four, then we’ll see how it goes.”

            Good, he’s doing what Sean had hoped he would do, taking matters into his own hands while following the loose parameters. If he can catch the abductors without killing them and doing a civilian arrest maybe, then he can call the Grimm a true ally. Of course, he’ll still keep an eye on him, there’s too much backstabbing and traitors to fully trust anyone. This is a war after all, a silent, secret war, but a war nonetheless.

            There’s a scar on Sean’s lower back from when he was twelve, when his mother and him had to flee the Old World to the United States of America. It had been given to him by a Grimm, a Kessler Grimm in fact. He’s surprised he doesn’t feel more negative feelings toward Nick for his family’s wrong doings, but there’s something about him.

Something more. And, to be honest, that’s more than a little terrifying. This isn’t supposed to happen in Sean’s lifetime.

 

[…]

 

            Kylie blinks back tears and continues picking at the blanket wrapped around her ankle. If it weren’t for the fact it it’s so dark, she’d be looking for a weapon in this cluttered basement. Unfortunately, she doesn’t trust her clumsy nature enough not to trip her into something sharp.

            Her number one priority should be figuring out why the hell a bunch of Heftigauroch decided to kidnap her. Yeah, her dad’s mayor, but that doesn’t mean jack shit if they don’t do anything about it. From the conversations she’s heard above her head more often than not, this group is as bullheaded as their animal counterpart and as dumb as most Hässlich.

            Gods, what she wouldn’t give to be able to woge properly. Mom was suppose to start teaching her yesterday since track and field finally and officially ended, but, well, that didn’t happen. She sniffles and roughly wipes at her nose, irritated with herself. Her face warms and her teeth sharpen, nicking her lip enough she tastes blood.

            Her dad always says that ‘ _you should never woge angry._ ’ They weren’t that kind of people any more, and anger, rage, despair, they all led to actions they would, could only regret. Well, right now she wishes she could just build that anger up instead of being scared and in pain.

            Something crashes above her, making her jerk and then hiss as the wound on her ankle makes itself re-known. It could be a troll knocking something over, but the yelp of pain tells her something else is happening. There’s another crash, glass shattering, shouting and curses.

            Okay, that’s weird.

            She heaves herself to her feet, whimpering when her ribs protest and her ankle screams. Her cheekbone throbs painfully now that she’s aware of it once again. Kylie uses the wall behind her as a crutch, balling her hand into a fist that’s not going to be very useful against a Heftigauroch, but she can sure as damn try.

            The door to the basement swings open, letting in the bright light of the day. She squints against it, eyes burning. The silhouette isn’t as large as any of the three bulls that got her after her final practice, but, somehow, that doesn’t make it any less intimidating. There’s something _off_ about this new person.

            “Kylie?” His voice is nice, though. Comforting, soft.

            She presses herself against the wall, her suddenly sharp nails biting into the palm of her hand. “Who are you?”

            “My name’s Nick,” he says assuredly. There’s a weird tilt to his words. “Captain Renard sent me looking for you.”

            Kylie perks up at that. “Sean Renard?” She takes a shuffling step forward. “You know Sean?”

            “Of course I do,” he says. “I work for him.” He takes the steps two at a time until he’s almost level with her, just a little too much taller for her liking. “I’m a new consultant.”

            She gets a whiff of old blood and cold iron and her hackles rise. She half-woges unintentionally, her vision sharpening. His eyes…Oh my gods, his _fucking eyes_. Deep, pitiless as the sun. Bottomless-ly endless of black that reflects Kylie back to herself.

            A _Grimm_.

            She shies away, cringing under his presence. He makes a distressed noise at the back of his throat.

            “No, no. It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. I swear.”

            Kylie shakes her head. “I’ve heard of you,” she hisses. She almost feels back when he flinches. “My grandma told me stories about Grimms. Why should I believe you?”

            “If I was like you thought I was, would I be able to tell you Sean Renard is the Royal in the _Laufer_?” he practically demands. She hesitates then shakes her head. No, that’s something he wouldn’t know if he were as bad as the stories. “Let me prove to you my good intentions, yeah?” He brings his thumb to his mouth, tearing into the flesh to bring blood bubbling up. “I swear to you, Kylie Lang of thePflichttreue people, I, Nikolaus Burk-ehm- _Kessler_ , will bring no harm to you or any wesen who causes no harm to those who do not deserve it.” He smears the blood on the back of his right hand, visibly making the symbol of promise on his skin, binding himself.

            Her eyes widen as the blood sinks into his skin. Self-binding is incredibly hard to do. Hell, she didn’t even think a Grimm capable of doing it.

            “Did you…?” She swallows. “What are you?” she whispers.

            He shrugs, the corner of his lip quirking up and expression a little more bitter than need be (she thinks). “That apparently is the running question of the decade.” He holds out his hand. “Come on, that ankle looks bad. I think there’s a few people who will be incredibly happy to see you right now.”

            Kylie carefully uncurls her fist and takes his hand, her blood smearing against his palm. The same palm he bound himself with. “I’m not going to leave you alone,” she decides. “Not until I figure out what you are. You can’t be a Grimm.”

            “And yet I am,” he points out dryly. She yelps when he swings her up in his arms, cradling her gently. “You’re in for the long haul if you actually go for it. And something tells me your parents aren’t going to be happy about you hanging out with an older guy.”

            She rolls her eyes. “Sorry to disappoint, but I think my girlfriend would be very upset if I dumped her for a guy. Especially with the whole lesbian thing going on. There’d be a lot of confusion.”

            He chuckles. “Okay, fair enough. Ready to get out of here?”

            “Please.”

 

[…]

Nick drops the case files Sean Renard gave him yesterday and rubs is eyes. A Blutbad abducting blondes with red jackets then eating them; a Ziegevolk keeping women in cages for breeding purposes; Jägerbars ritualistically killing trespassers. All cases could’ve been closed days earlier for each one with fewer lives and innocence lost if even Renard just had one person who was trained half as much as they should be. He doesn’t understand why there’s so many wesen in Portland. There’s evidence they’ve been here even before the Royal, if the designs on and of some of the older buildings mean anything.

            He glances at his phone and groans when he sees that it’s only four in the morning. He shoves the case files in his bag then changes into something appropriate for running. He’ll have to go shopping soon, he thinks mournfully. Two months of living out a duffle bag is killer on his clothes and they’re starting to look a little sad. And he should probably start looking for a flat as well, Renard seemed amicable to Nick staying in his territory to start helping out. It’ll get very expensive to live in a hotel that entire time. And it wouldn’t feel like a home.

            Nick zips his cellphone and hotel key in his pocket with a little more force than necessary. He doesn’t need to think like that. He had two separate homes for about ten years each; he can’t pretend he’s never had one. He’s had a better life than most.

            He takes the stairs instead of the elevator and passes the front desk receptionist, Kaisa the surprisingly friendly Blitzlöwen. She’s pretty much the only wesen in Portland who hasn’t turned heel and run when she saw him the first time. He can’t figure out why, but he finds himself thinking it’s probably because she doesn’t know what she is exactly and what he is. He doesn’t mind that at all.

            “You should be sleeping, Mr. Burkhardt,” she scolds him; there’s a smile on her face. “You look exhausted.” She shakes her head. “Be careful.”

            He waves an acknowledgement before dashing out the door in a light jog. Nick doesn’t have a route in mind yet, but he takes care not to get lost in his head. He’s normally great at finding his way around even when he’s lost in a strange place, but he’s too compromised to trust himself right now.

            Despite his efforts, he still manages to lose himself—going over case files in his head and the plan the Laufer went over with him before he left for Dulles. He can’t get his family to stop haunting his thoughts and he trips over his feet. He’s fine for a few more meters until he turns a corner and his knee buckles. He slams into a brick wall, not able to catch himself in time. The shock jars him back into reality, he swears and lets his back his hit wall before sliding down to press his face against his knees.

            Nick checks his watch, ignoring the throbbing in his left knee, and winces at the 6:33 a.m. glowing at him. He feels like he’s going to be sick, his stomach rolling and hands shaking, the world is spinning with darkness trying to conquer the corner of his eyes. He’s only been jogging for an hour and a half, well within his normal limits.

            Damn his cousins. Damn Antonio.

            “Are you okay?”

            He glances up to see soft brown eyes with a hint of steel. Nick blinks and the visage of a fox flickers, the faintest traces of a Fuchsbau without having her woge. It’s a neat trick he’s only mentioned once to his Aunt Marie and she told him to keep it to himself lest his family found out.

            “I’m fine,” he says, his voice hoarser than he thought it would be. He clears his throat and tries again, “I’m fine.” This time it’s a little stronger.

            She raises an eyebrow, skeptical. “Uh, huh, sure.” She shuffles her bags together, one close to tipping out of her arms.

            Nick jumps to his feet, vision whiting only slightly at the fast movement. He swallows the urge to vomit and holds out an arm. “Let me help you.” He can see the wariness on her face and he’s suddenly glad for the overwhelming smell of hotel soap and sweat, it covers up the cold iron and blood. He plasters on the most innocent grin he can manager, probably failing if he looks as stupid as he feels.

            She sighs and holds out a bag, the corner of her lip twitching. “Here, I’m just two blocks away.”

            Nick takes it almost gratefully. It’s nice when people don’t run from him like he’s trailing the apocalypse behind him. She turns heel and starts walking briskly, glancing at the sky as she does so. He takes a look as well and it startled to notice the clouds looking saturated with rain. When did that happen?

            The building the Fuchsbau stops at says ‘Exotic Tea and Spice Shop’ with a symbol lacquered on the glass that looks innocent enough until you see _fraus omnia vitial_ underneath in small, impossibly small, letters—an interesting motto for a family full of foxes, especially with the skeletons out of the closet for the brother.

            The smell that hits him when he walks in almost sends him off his feet in the gloriousness. Anything that could potentially raise hairs is hidden by the perfume of the titled teas and spices that line the shelves. He spots a few names he recognizes from his aunt’s cabinet, they’re not relevant to Grimm sensibilities, they can’t poison or anything, but they do make a mean tea when an eleven year old boy who just lost his father and is forced to flee to a foreign county has a nightmare.

            She must see the expression on his face because she grins. “How about I make you a pack of tea, good for a month? On the house as a thanks.”

            Nick shakes his head. “No, no. I can’t. Thank you, though.”

            She shoves the other bag into his arm, forcing him to set them both down before he drops them. “I insist. Monroe would kill me if I let politeness like this go unrewarded.”

            Monroe? Oh, Monroe. The Blutbad, then this must be the lovely person who the Pumpkin Spice Latte belonged to. This is interesting.

            Rosalee bustles around the Spice Shop, leaving Nick to linger at her counter. “What do you like in your tea?”

            He lists the different flavors in the tea his aunt liked to give him. Nick traces one of the jars, smiling at the French on the label. “How long has this spice shop been in the family?”

            She freezes mid-scoop. “What makes you think it’s a family thing?”

            “I work for the police department,” he admits, half-truth. “I was looking up the history of this part of Portland. Your brother came up. Seemed like a family business.”

            She turns back around, pressing her lips together before answering. “My great-grandma opened this place up. It went to my grandparents before they went back to Germany, then my mom, my brother, then me.”

            He hums. “Are all of you Fuchsbau?”

            The jar in her hand drops and shatters, luckily there’s only half a scoop left inside and he can always buy her a new jar. “What?” she squeaks, her voice reaching an interesting pitch. She turns around, her eyes flashing. “What the hell are you talking about?” she demands, eyes narrowing and eye brows furrowing.

            “I met Monroe a few days ago,” he says. This is a calculated risk, he reminds himself. The sooner the people he wants as his allies are told about him Grimm aspects the easier their relationship can progress. A calculated risk that he’s seriously regretting actually acting on now, the look in this fox’s eyes is actually a little bit terrifying. “I’m sure he mentioned me?”

            She growls. “ _Grimm_. Of course.”

            He sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “You know, I’m really getting tired of this whole ‘Oh no, a Grimm,’ thing. I haven’t done anything to any of you.”

            Rosalee curls her fingers on the counter edge. “Yeah, well, the reputation of a Grimm precedes you all. What do you want?”

            “I want to take down the Royal Family,” he tells her, sagging slightly against the counter. They’re closer now, but it seems Rosalee refuses to back down. “I want to rein in the Verrat and the Grimms. This life the wesen have been living all these years? These hundred of years? It’s not a life they should be living. They’re not living, they’re surviving. That’s not a life.”

            Her eyebrow quirks up. “I…really?”

            “What?”

            Rosalee laughs. “I’m sorry, but—.” Her laughter gets louder. He huffs and crosses his arms, his annoyance rising. “Hold on,” she gasps. “It’s nothing against you, I promise,” she says when she finally stops laughing and catches her breath. “It’s just, it’s weird to hear that coming from a Grimm. What made you decide this?—And don’t think for a second that I actually believe you.”

            Nick scowls at her, tightening his crossed arms. His stomach starts rolling again after spending so long calmed down. “Do you remember that mass-killing in Egypt last year?”

            She shakes her head. “No. It would’ve been on the news, wouldn’t it?”

            “Yeah, normally.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “The Royal Families thought a small community of multi-generational Kasipepo was planning some sort of uprising against them. I was forced to attend, along with most Grimms they thought were rebelling. It was suppose to break us, watching these experience Grimms slaughter those innocent Cheetahs.” He swallows thickly and opens his eyes. Rosalee’s eyes are wide in horror. “There was no planned uprising. Their community of single people wesen was just getting too big for the Families.”

            She covers her mouth with a hand, eyes bright with tears. “You…I…” She scrubs at her eyes angrily. “What is _wrong_ with people?”

            Nick laughs, short and dark. “I wondered that before Egypt and I wonder that now. It was just the tipping point for my decision. Even the Portland Royal doesn’t know about this,” he says. “I just…it’s not a nice memory.”

            “No, it’s probably not.” Rosalee grabs a new jar full of leaves from his list, almost absently filling up his order. He wonders if it’s still free. “What do you want with me? Why did you talk to Monroe?”

            He shrugs. “It’s been a very, very long time since I’ve had friends. I want help, I want to help, and I don’t want to do it alone.”

            Rosalee’s head snaps up, meeting his gaze. She sets down the tealeaves carefully and leans in again. Without even realising it, he leans in until their faces are inches from each other. She carefully woges, her neck rolling and her face changing slowly, fluidly. When she’s fully Fuchsbau she stays eye-to-eye with him. Her expression opening, emotional, vulnerable.

            “What are you?”

            He smirks. “Second time that’s been asked in two days. What’s wrong with me that makes wesen ask that?”

            Rosalee’s fox visage fades. “Your eyes aren’t right. I’ve met a Grimm before, back when I was visiting my grandparents as a child. My mom killed him, but not before he killed my grandpa. I saw his eyes. Your eyes don’t match.”

            Nick frowns and rubs at his eyes self-consciously. “Oh.”

            She snorts. “You didn’t know?”

            “No, I didn’t.”

            Rosalee put the jar in a brown bag and folds down the top. “This is yours,” she says softly. “Give me a few days to digest what you’ve told me, okay?”

            “Thank you.” He takes the bag carefully. “I know it took a lot not to run when I called you out.”

            “You really need to work on your people skills,” she says, not-quite teasingly but close enough that Nick’s chest warms. “You never told me your name.”

            “It’s Nick. Nick Burkhardt.”

            She smiles. “Rosalee Calvert. You already knew that.” She screws the lid on the last jar she used. “Take care of yourself, Nick.”


End file.
